


Multiple Choice

by shinodabear



Category: My Life in Film, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet, short fic, and two drabbles dealing with the happy coincidence of Andrew Scott playing both Jones and Moriarty. Your choices are: A. Jones is a cover for Moriarty; B. Jones plays Moriarty to help Art with his film; C. Jones IS Moriarty; D. None of the Above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Multiple Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daphnie_1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnie_1/gifts).



A. Jones is a cover for Moriarty  
Some Like it Dull 

“Perhaps,” Moran wrote. “A real bomb wasn’t the best choice.” He punctuated his note with a smug look. Moriarty grinned and, he assumed, laughed. He couldn’t hear himself if he did. The doctors said his deafness would pass, but it had been three hours and he’d come no closer to hearing Sebastian’s nagging wife routine than he’d been when Seb had been dragging his body from the rubble. (Sherlock and his pet had survived, of course. He hadn’t rigged the bomb to kill, only to maim.)

“We need to lay low for a while,” Moran wrote beneath his last message.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. He knew what that meant.

“I’ve got a new idea for a film,” Seb mouthed, knowing Jim could understand him. He’d seen Seb’s mouth formulate that sentence for years after a particularly close call with INTERPOL. “Silent,” Seb mouthed, hands dramatically gesticulating the awesomeness of his next idea.

Moriarty glanced at the bandages covering his arms and torso and sighed. He looked back up and spoke, knowing he’d get the words right. “Piss off, Art.”

Sebastian grinned and scribbled another note on the paper. “Pity we blew up Mary.”

“There was no ‘we,’ dear. You shot her,” Jim wrote.

“And you,” Moran wrote back. “Buried her goldfish.”

Moriarty smiled. He was going to be so bored, but with Sherlock hospitalized indefinitely (possibly deceased; whoops) what else had he to do but let Seb come up with stupid film ideas?

 

B. Jones plays Moriarty to help Art with his film  
Two Criminals, a Detective, and One Big Misunderstanding

It started with Carl Powers.

They were having breakfast, reading the morning paper stolen from across the hall, when Art got another idea. He articulated said idea to Jones by way of folding the paper and pointing enthusiastically at the small column headed: “Town Mourns the Twentieth Anniversary of Boy’s Death”.

Jones read. “Did you know him?”

Art rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t. Seems like a nice boy. Good swimmer.” Jones scanned his picture. “Big kid. What?”

“What?” Art shook his head. “Jones. Have you no imagination? Carl Powers! Someone killed Carl Powers.”

“It says here Carl drowned. It was a tragic accident, fit in the water.”

“And that his shoes weren’t recovered from the scene.”

“So?”

“So, the killer took them!”

Jones shook his head. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea, Art. He’s a real boy. With family. We can’t bring him into your schemes.”

“Like hell we can. Filmmakers do it all the time! It’ll be fine.” Art got up from the table and left, no doubt to start typing.

+

  
“It’s needs a good beginning.” Art said on the drive to the shops the next morning.

“Voiceover?” Jones supplied, reluctance at using the Powers’ boy forgotten.

“Nah.”

“How about a murder,” Beth tried from the backseat.

Art was silent. A minute later, he punched the air. “A murder! No. Two murders! Three. A series of murders. Only. . . It’ll be like suicide. A serial murder. But the killer isn’t the killer. It’s someone else, someone higher up.”

“The protagonist guy you were talking about?”

“Yes, Jones. Our guy.”

“Why do you want to make out a killer to be a sympathetic character? Isn’t that sending the wrong message?” Beth asked.

Art turned around and gave her a look. Jones apologized for him. “You see, Beth, Art thinks that heroes are overdone. He thinks the villains are where the money is these days. I’d have to agree.” Jones grinned. “I always liked a good villain.”

“But Jim’s not a villain.” Art protested. “He’s just a man, like the detective. He’s just bored, doing his thing, and people get hurt. Nothing can be traced back directly to him. It’s brilliant. And he’ll be so charming that the audience won’t know who to side with.”

“I think they’d side with the police,” Beth said. Art, again, ignored her.

“It’ll be a hit, Beth,” Jim encouraged. “You’ll see.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

+

“So our guy, right?” Art began out of the blue, sitting at the bus stop. “He’s done the serial murders with the cabbie. He’s done the trade deal with that gang. The detective’s got ‘em all. Now, our man’s intrigued. He wants to play now. So he’s been rigging these people up with bombs, keeping outside the line of fire for all this time. But the detective, he’s gotten under the criminal’s skin. Really under it. So he gets closer. He chooses his next victim very carefully. Get this. It’s a blind woman.” Art paused, waiting for Jones to get it.

Jones shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“She’s _blind!_ How is she going to read his words on a beeper?”

“She isn’t.”

“No, she isn’t. So he gives her an earpiece.”

“He talks to her.”

“Exactly.”

“…so what?”

Art made a little show of being annoyed and exasperated and some people looked at him, but it was fine. They stopped looking after a second. Then Art calmed down. “ _So,_ ” he said. “She can describe him. And she does, heat of the moment, to the detective. Our man can’t have that. So he has her killed. Bomb explodes, a bunch of people die. Our guy wins; the detective loses.”

The bus pulled up and the people got on. Art and Jones remained standing. Art was out gathering ideas for the “normal people” in his next film. (The bus stop was Beth’s idea, but Art pretended he thought of it himself.) Jones stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I don’t think you’re being very sensitive to Mary’s condition.”

“That reminds me,” he said a minute later. “We have to send her flowers. For her new place. She’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

+

“I’ve got it,” Art said.

“What have you got?” Jones asked.

“An ending. The perfect way to stop an unstoppable antagonist and glorify our protagonist.”

Jones was interested. “What do you have in mind?”

“A Swiss vacation. Lots of natural scenery. A giant waterfall”

Jones shook his head. “Low-budget, remember?”

Art deflated. “Damn. All right. So. A hotel, then? We’ll throw him off the top balcony.”

Jones winced. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh, Art?”

“But that’s the beauty of it, see? You’ll be thinking that it’ll be this big explosion with guns and goons and coppers, but no. It’s a twist of the ankle and down he goes, right at the climax of the confrontation. Gravity, Jones. Gravity kills him.”

Jones shrugged. “If you say so.”

+

“Art’s pretty serious about this one, isn’t he?” Beth asked during a rare dinner alone with Jones.

“Oh yes,” Jones smiled. “It’s really his best. Has he let you read any of it yet?”

“You mean he’s actually written something?” Beth laughed. “I didn’t think he actually did anything but sit at the desk and spy on the neighbours.”

“He’s really committed to this one, Beth.”

Beth made a face. Jones knew what that face meant.

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“No, no!” Beth said. “It’s great. I just . . . Don’t you think he’s going a bit . . . far?”

Jones tilted his head. “How do you mean?”

Beth told him about the rifles. She told him about the computers and phone calls. About the strange people who would show up to their flat at the oddest times. Jones shrugged it all off. “It’s research, Beth. He needs to know what he’s writing about, doesn’t he?”

Beth was angry at him, but Jones knew it would be all right. Art really had something special this time. So special. He was just waiting for the day when Art would ask for his help.

+

“Art,” Jones looked down at the clothes laid across his bed. “where did these come from?”

Art appeared in the doorway, half of a ham sandwich shoved in his mouth. “Friend,” he managed to say.

Jim wrinkled his nose. “The underwear, too?”

Art shrugged.

Jim picked the brightly colored briefs up by the waistband with the tips of two fingers. “Did you at least wash them?”

“Yes.”

“With bleach?”

“If I used bleach, Jones,” Art paused to finish his sandwich. “It would’ve stained it.”

“Not if you used the color safe one. It’s in the blue bottle to the left of the regular bleach. You couldn’t have missed it had you bothered to look for it.”

“What does it matter? Just put them on.” Art entered fully into the room, grabbing the t-shirt and propping it up against Jones’ chest. He seemed pleased.

“How come I always end up wearing the costumes?”

“Because you, Jones, are my muse. And right now my muse is a clumsy homosexual currently dating the female mortician to get at the cute detective. He works in IT.”

“Why does the detective work in IT?”

“No. Not the detective. Jim.”

“I thought Jim was a criminal mastermind.”

“He works in IT now. It’s a thing.”

Jones grabbed the shirt and pants and, after a warning glare from Art, the underwear, too. “Fine, but. Just one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Is Jim gay because he’s the villain or the villain because he’s gay?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jones smiled with relief. “Just. People. They can be sensitive about these things. Never mind.”

+

“I’m stuck, Jones,” Art complained, head smashed up against the typewriter.

“Can I put my own clothes on now?”

“No.” Art lifted an arm and pointed to the bed. “Westwood. Very expensive. Try that instead.”

+

“Jones?”

“Yes, Art?”

“You make a very convincing criminal mastermind.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Sure you do. Look at you. You look . . . well. Hold on.” Art left, then reappeared with scissors. He carefully trimmed Jones’ hair. He left again, then returned with some of Beth’s stuff. He … did something to Jone’s eyebrows and applied some of her makeup. Jones protested, but not entirely. He would do anything for Art’s benefit. And Art knew that. When finished, Art stepped back and smiled. “Now, look at me like you’re thinking of a hundred ways to kill me. Painfully.” Jones tried. Art beamed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are back in business!”

That’s when Jones first developed a small, sick pit in his stomach.

+

Art never let him out of Jim’s clothes. Jim was the name of the criminal mastermind. Jim Moriarty. Art had been trying out his plot on everyone in town, whispering the name to everyone, to see if they’re reaction was one of intrigue or boredom – “A name, Jones,” he said, “is the most important part.”

When Jones complained about how he missed his old life, Art hit him with a guilt trip. “Can’t you see it, Jones? It’s going to be a hit!” he’d say, and Art would be so happy that Jones couldn’t deny him just one more day of playing Jim.

+

One day, Art said this: “What sort of psychopath has a _girlfriend_?”

And Jones knew what that meant. “Everyone’s got someone, Art,” Jones said, secretly dialing Beth’s number.

“He needs a right-hand man, not a girlfriend.” Art said.

Beth’s mobile went straight to voicemail.

“Art,” Jones said.

“Not now, Jim. I’ve got actors to hire!” Art pulled out his own mobile and called . . . someone. Jones found the nearest chair and sat down. He thought about things, but found that he didn’t like the thinking so much.

He didn’t have to think long. Art came back in with a page of script. “Here. Memorize that and be at the location tomorrow.”

+

Jones went, of course. He met Molly and they had a chat. She actually was a pathologist, but Art had approached her for a bit role and she’d done theatre as a student and thought it might be fun. “Anything to get _something_ out of Sherlock,” she said. “He’s so . . . he’s terrible and wonderful and just --” She went on and Jones sat nervously in his seat. He hadn’t seen Art or a film crew. And Beth hadn’t called him back.

+

Art told him that the news had blown Art’s … well, art, ... out of proportion. That the people in bombs were his and that everything was fine.

But then Mary’s building blew up.

“Gas leak,” Art said.

Jones wanted to believe him.

+

Art had given him the pep talk of his life. This was the most important part. The sponsors were depending on Jones. This was the big moment. This was _it_. All Jones had to do was go out there and be exactly what he and Art had discussed. The sick knot was still in Jones’ stomach, but he knew he’d go through with it. It _was_ a rather nice film so far. It’d be a shame to ruin it just a for a few nervous jitters.

With a deep breath, Jones stepped out into the open air of the pool.

+

“CUT!” Art called from the rafters of the pool and Jones sighed in relief. “Oh thank god,” he said, collapsing back against the wall. Jones wasn’t too fond of playing Jim. Jim was too . . . unhinged. And he like to play with the real thing, never any props. “Really gets the blood going,” Art had said. And he was right.

At Art’s shout, John was on his feet and Sherlock was turned towards Art’s voice, gun still cocked. “Who was that?” he asked Jones, but then he looked closer at Jones and became even more confused. Jones gave a little wave from the floor where he had propped himself up against the wall. All traces of the psychotic criminal were gone from him.

“That was amazing, Jones!” Art exclaimed, finally emerging from view. He grinned, waving the laser pointer around in victory. “I told you, this is going to be a complete hit. You’re gonna be a star, Jonesy!”

Jones blushed. “You think so, Art?”

“I know so.” Art grinned. “You, too, boys. That was seriously convincing. Of course, you thought it was all real, so . . . you had to be, didn’t you?”

Sherlock pointed the gun at Art. Jones shouted for him to put it down.

Art’s hands were raised in surrender. “Your brother funded my film! Told me to entertain you. Said it be beneficial to both parties! Please don't shoot me, I'm too young to die!”

Sherlock hadn't shot Art. But that was only because someone else, who turned out to be the brother and sponsor, entered the pool and explained everything. It was some kind of birthday present, Jones overheard. He was just glad to still be alive. The film industry was an odd one, he surmised. He wondered why Art hadn't told him about Mycroft's terms but then he figured that was one of the terms: tell no one, not even Jones.

In the end, Sherlock was rather upset, as was John, but once Art showed them an advanced version of the film he'd made, they loved it. Well, Sherlock did. Because he was, in Art’s words, “a born actor.” Mycroft had been quite pleased with it himself. The only ones who didn't seem to care for it were John and Beth. They'd come around eventually, Jones supposed. Well, perhaps not Beth. All of her scenes had been cut. Jones said he'd make sure she got a big role in the sequel but for some reason that only upset Beth more.

"Women," Art had said, shaking his head. Jones tried not to agree.

 

C. Jones IS Moriarty

Butch and Sundance: The Latter Days

He’d been following along in Art’s schemes for so long that he barely noticed when he shed his old life and slipped into that of Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. (“Can’t you see it, Jones? It’s going to be a hit!”) It was simple to have Beth killed (“Because what sort of psychopath has a girlfriend? No. She’s out.”) And it was simple to let go. (“You’ll need a right-hand man.") Art let go, too. (“I had a clean shot! You should have let me take him out!”)

None of that mattered; they were still together, and they made something wonderful.

 

D. None of the Above

The Mastermind and the Pauper

To anyone watching, they were brothers. Twin brothers, of course. But they weren’t brothers – well, so far as they could figure. Jim mentioned Doppelganger theories and how the maths were right for something like this to happen, but Jones didn’t really follow it. Jim was some kind of genius. Jones was just an independent film maker, part-time employee of a local cinema. He was, in Jim's words, "wasting his talents and driving himself into poverty."

So he didn’t think anything of accepting Jim’s job offer. Not even when he was on the plane to a quiet little town in Switzerland.


End file.
